


the last hard men.

by outpastthemoat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean and Cas watch TV, M/M, Post-Purgatory, Season gr8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 14:39:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outpastthemoat/pseuds/outpastthemoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The television blinks off, and Dean jerks in surprise, spilling his half-empty beer over the leg of his jeans.  </p><p>“What the hell, Cas, I was watching that,” he complains, and twists around to shoot the angel a glare, and digs around to find a t-shirt for mopping up the beer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the last hard men.

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Deutsch available: [Die letzten harten Männer (Übersetzung)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/971401) by [lumidaub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumidaub/pseuds/lumidaub)



The television blinks off, and Dean jerks in surprise, spilling his half-empty beer over the leg of his jeans.  

“What the _hell_ , Cas, I was watching that,” he complains, and twists around to shoot the angel a glare, and digs around to find a t-shirt for mopping up the beer.  

“That was not a good movie, Dean,” Cas says in mournful tones.

“Yeah, it _was_ , dumbass,” Dean says, weary.  He’s not up for arguing the merits of a classic western shoot-‘em-up movie at two-thirty in the morning when neither of them can sleep, he really isn’t, not tonight.  

Dean wonders briefly if it’s worth it to try and wrestle the remote out of Cas’s hands, but remembers the iron strength of Cas’s grip and decides there’s no way in hell that he’d be successful.  Friggin’ angels.  

“Dude just busted outta jail and got away scot-free and you just _turned it off_ right when it was getting to the best part, and then you wanna tell me it wasn’t a good movie.”   

“Well, it _wasn’t_ ,” snaps Cas, and something in his tone makes Dean look at him, _really_ look at him, and he suddenly sees, now, that Cas is upset.  

Cas is sitting on the edge of the other bed, his jaw tight, staring straight ahead at the empty screen, and though he doesn’t need to breathe it doesn’t seem to be stopping his chest from rising and falling with quick, furious huffs of air.  

“Cas?” Dean asks uncertainly, but Cas won’t look at him.

“That man had a trial,” Cas says, and his voice sounds tight with anger.  ”He was sentenced to life in prison for the crimes he committed.  What gives him the _right_ ,” Cas continues, growing louder, “what makes him think he has _any_ right whatsoever to just escape his punishment, the punishment he _deserves,_ to just- to just _leave_ like it never happened-“

“Whoa, Cas, calm down, it’s okay,” Dean begins to say, concerned, and he half-rises from the bed, but Cas still won’t look at him, just twists the remote over and over in his hands.  

“Jesus, Cas, it’s just a movie,” he says weakly, but he knows it’s not just a movie, not to Cas, the angel who had once woken him up in the middle of the night after watching a procedural cop drama to ask him, with a face full of grave, anxious concern, why a man would kill his brother over a briefcase of money and compromising nude photos, and Dean had to explain the very human concept of blackmail.  

And suddenly through the haze of exhaustion and beer it occurs to Dean what this might be about.

“Look, Cas- ” Dean scrubs his face tiredly with his hands.  ”No one sentenced you to any punishment.  No trial, no judge.  There wasn’t any reason why you should’ve stayed in purgatory.”

Cas goes very still.  ”I have no idea what you mean,” he says loftily, all icy serenity.  ”I’m talking about a movie, Dean, not myself,” he snaps, and crosses his arms.

Dean ducks his head; he almost wants to smile.   _Deny, deny, deny_ , he thinks ruefully.  _Well played, Cas, you child._ _You watch every move I make, don’t you?_ And that makes Dean drift off into a trail of thought, considering for the first time the way Cas follows Dean’s every movement with his eyes, listens to every word he says, as though he’s stowing the information for later with plans to fling it all back in Dean’s face.   

“I don’t think we’re on the same page here, Cas,” Dean says, suddenly exhausted.  He’s fumbling for words, he doesn’t know what to say, because he never does.  

“It’s too late to be having this conversation,” he grumbles, but suddenly Cas looks straight at him.

“I _should_ have been tried,” Cas says, his voice low, “I should have been _judged,_ sentenced, imprisoned - so why am I sitting here, comfortable and - and  _happy_ , here with you?” 

Dean understands that Cas will probably never forgive himself; sometimes thinks that Cas’s capacity for self-punishment is greater than even Dean’s ever was.

Dean opens his mouth, then reconsiders. Cas is looking away again, looking twitchy; he shifts uncomfortably on the bed and hunches his shoulders uneasily.  Okay, fine.  They’ll finish this later.  

He figures _avoidance_ is another Dean Winchesterism Cas has caught on to.  

“I think your idea of comfort sucks, Cas,” Dean says simply, and he swings his legs out of his bed and pads over to Cas’s.

Cas turns his head and looks at Dean questioningly.  ”Scoot over,” he says, and Cas does, automatic.  Dean maneuvers himself into place, sticks a pillow behind his back and leans against the scarred oak headboard.

He reaches out and grabs Cas’s wrist, feeling the slide of tendons against bones under his fingertips, and gently pries Cas’s fingers off the remote.  

He leaves his hand there, for a moment, resting gently on Cas’s arm, and after a moment the tension fades out from underneath his fingers, and Cas slumps against Dean’s side. 

He eases an arm carefully around Cas’s shoulders, and Cas sighs, a quiet, weary sound.  Dean clicks the television back on.  ”Let’s find something else to watch.”


End file.
